


A Match Made in Heaven

by pastel_poisons



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Outercourse, Post-Blind Betrayal, Wall Sex, match making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6711010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastel_poisons/pseuds/pastel_poisons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were two of a kind. One, a robot that resembled more of a trashcan than anything. The other, a synthetic man whose life was destroyed by a hidden fact that even he didn't know. Both naïve that the other was interested in them until fate - or a nosy Vault Dweller - brought them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cupid of the Commonwealth

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this forever ago, and am just now getting to posting it. It took me so long because I had a dream my fic was so terrible, the Fallout fandom banded together to run me off the internet. I had to go back to MySpace.
> 
> Please, don't do that to me.

It began with a man in blue. He was a shiny, well-preserved relic among piles of dead ghouls, surrounded by the stink of ozone and blood. The juxtaposition alone was enough to make one look twice.

He approached the Paladin, kicking up dirt and cracked concrete with each step. "Hey," he grinned, showing white, pre-war teeth. "I'm Nate." He stuck out a hand, still covered with caked-on gore. Nails, almost black. "And this is- " Danse's stomach dropped. "Nick Valentine."

'It,' Danse had called Nick at the time. 'Machine,' 'synth,' anything but a proper name. The face was similar to Gen 2 models. He was unable to be mistaken for anything organic, unfit to be a spy. Though, Danse took little comfort in the fact.

Back then, neither paid much mind to the other. Danse regarded Nick as just an unfortunate choice of company the Vault Dweller kept. Nick brushed Danse off as simply Nate's newest eye candy.

Not that Nick suspected Nate of personally wanting to seduce the Paladin. Nate had a passion for hooking others up. 'Love conquers all,' Nick vaguely recalled him saying. As if playing Cupid would undo a nuclear fallout.

The sun had been setting. The first of many stars dotting the sky.

Nate made many decisions that night. None of them really his place to say. He convinced Scribe Haylen to sleep in another room. Words like "honor" and "decency,” tossed around like loose caps. He called it "inappropriate" for a woman to share a room with four men.

At the time, Danse only counted three.

They slept in shifts. "It only makes sense," Nate reasoned. And it did. Cambridge was littered with ghouls. It was best to have someone keep watch.

The only part confusing to Danse: why he ended up alone with the synth. _'Surely,'_ he reasoned, _'it didn't need to sleep.'_

"You planning on leaving that power armor anytime soon?" The older model had asked.

No, he didn't.

Danse had been suspicious of the whole ordeal. He didn't understand why the two insisted on even staying at the police station. Combine that with Nate always murmuring into Valentine's ear, and how little Danse knew about either of them, and you had a recipe for a very sketchy situation.

However, the synth stated he knew nothing of the Institute, that they'd tossed him out. He theorized that he was a prototype.

Nate briefly touched upon his mission to find his son.

“If those things are true,” Scribe Haylen had said, “we have nothing to fear.”

The next day, Danse found the Vault Dweller hadn't been lying. Scribe Haylen, Knight Rhys, and himself had survived the night.

Danse will admit he'd been hasty when recruiting Nate. But he had proven useful, and he had a common enemy with the Brotherhood of Steel. Plus, when Danse was being completely honest with himself, he found Nate attractive.

From there, things went south.

Nate, hero of the Commonwealth, retrieved data from the Institute. With it, a list of missing synths. Without even meaning to, he'd uncovered the monster living right underneath the Brotherhood's nose.

Danse's life, all he knew, fell apart. All because of the secret he hadn't even known he was keeping.

Yet, Nate went to find Danse. He fought his way into Listening Post Bravo, refused to kill Danse, and wouldn't let the former-paladin do it himself. All that, to tell Danse he still meant something, still was somebody.

That he still was a person.

"I can't travel with you right now. Maxson wants to see me. You can't be there.” Nate continued, “Go to Sanctuary Hills and stay there while I'm gone, alright?"

“Oh...” Danse had said, dejected. Then nodded, and silently obeyed.

“Danse!" Nate called after him, stopping the other man in his tracks. “I almost forgot! I want to talk with you about something.”


	2. Which Brings Us Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's working title was, "Zapp Brannigan P.I, What are you doing here?"

  
"Is this a joke?"  
  
Danse says nothing. He stands close. Too close for Nick's liking, and too close for his own.  
  
Nick finds himself crushed between a man, and a wall.  
  
The older man takes out a cigarette. The cardboard packaging giving way under his grasp. _'Now, it's either MacCready or Cait who's been stealing from me again,'_ he thinks. _'Probably the latter.'_  
  
Danse's expression falls into a look of disgust at the first puff of smoke. He shuffles back, away from the carcinogen. Not that it'll matter much in the face of fallout. Nick contemplates telling Danse he's statistically more likely to die from drinking dirty water than from smoking.  
  
The kid had approached him, asking for sex. Something told the detective that Hancock had a hand in this. To torment old Nick, and humiliate the former-paladin, would be killing two birds with one stone.  
  
Danse still hadn't answered his question. Nick, getting impatient, decides to figure out his intentions the quick way.  
  
His coat, more patches than original fabric, hits the floor. "Well?"  
  
To his surprise, Danse nods. No backtracking, no slurs Nick knows are more about M7-97 than the detective.  
  
_'Could be wrong, though. Maybe Nate's the culprit here.'_ Valentine thinks. _'Wouldn't be the first time he tried to play match-maker.'_  
  
He undoes his pants, and pulls them down. Confusion colors Danse's face; Nick reads it like a book. His hand – covered in gray faux-skin – grabs his, leading it to the smooth, featureless area.  
  
He hisses. A sharp, unnecessary intake of air. Something, a fan, whirs deep where a heart should be. A reminder to Danse of what they both are.  
  
He finds Nick interesting to look at. Wrinkles etch into his face. Are they the result of tobacco and gravity, or were they purposely carved into the synthetic skin? He doesn't know. Nick himself couldn't give him an answer.  
  
Just below all the lies and grime, there's something Danse really can't tear his gaze from. Wires, and jagged rips in fake flesh.  
  
Dimly lit eyes follow the direction of his. "That bother you, kid?"  
  
"Is it dangerous? To touch, I mean."  
  
What passes for an eyebrow rises. "You want to?"  
  
Another silent answer.  
  
Nick's expression softens. "Alright."  
  
He frees his hand from between the two bodies. Danse hadn't realized until now, but it was shaking. Nicotine fingers lace with his, once again guiding him. Stopping where skin ends.  
  
It starts with the pads of his fingers. Gentle caresses along the edge of the hole. He dips them in, shallowly.  
  
Nick's hand, the exposed one, slides up the other's shirt, only to rake down his back. Skin burns, blood droplets form.  
  
Danse parts his lips, and lowers his head.  
  
"Hey," Valentine begins, "you might not want to do that."  
  
Too late.  
  
There's a small jolt of electricity. Nothing deadly, just painful as Hell. Danse jerks back.  
  
Nick tightens his grip, cutting into him yet again. "Damn!"  
  
A moment passes, then a few more. Composure is regained. Dignity? Not so much.  
  
Nick smiles. "How about we do this the old-fashion way?"  
  
He pulls the other man into a kiss, undoing the buttons of his flannel, slipping the fabric off his shoulders. Metal fingers find Danse's zipper, and yank it down. "Take these off for me," Nick orders, tugging at the denim.  
  
Without hesitation, Danse removes the remainder of his clothes.  
  
Nick decides then and there: Danse deserves better. With a face – and body – like that, he could get anyone he damn well pleased. Sweet guy too. Well, to a point. So much potential, wasted up against a wall with the man who was literally thrown in the garbage. Danse shouldn't be in this beat up house, with a beat up guy.  
  
Danse's body finds Nick's again, cock slipping between thighs, smearing pre-cum on the Vinyl.  
  
The younger man shutters, gripping Nick's shoulders, then thrusts. They begin a rhythm, gaining momentum fast.  
  
Danse was not the quieter of the two, letting out a string of fuck and please. Surprising, considering how cramped life in the Prydwen is – er... _was_ , for him. Nate told Nick about the thin walls and community showers. And that was if your rank was high enough. Nate frequently complained about his status, of sleeping out in the open. His exact words: "How's a man supposed to rub one out without any privacy?"  
  
Danse's orgasm is messy. Dripping down Nick's legs, and splashing the wall they lean against. Not that his semen could ruin the building anymore than it already was.  
  
"That was," he pants, "exhilarating."  
  
Neglected, Nick ruts against Danse. The latter lets out a whine, over-stimulated.  
  
"Didn't you..." He gestures vaguely to Nick's lower half, brows knit together.  
  
"I was hoping you would ask. And no, I didn't."  
  
His hand returns to Valentine's crotch, slicker now from bodily fluid. Rough fingers, slowly working Nick back up. The touch too gentle, and the pace not quick enough for him.  
  
"You gotta go faster than that," Nick says, grinding harder against the other.  
  
Danse complies.  
  
Metallic teeth clench together. Nick exhales, only some air leaving through his mouth. Most of it escapes out his throat.  
  
To Danse, the look of bliss was strange. Too human for plastic and leather.  
  
The whirring in the detective's chest gets louder, more demanding. _'Damn! I was almost there too.'_ His hips halt their movement.  
  
He pushes Danse away, gently. "Sorry, kid, but I'm gonna overheat if we keep this up." If Nick had the blood to blush, he'd be as red as Danse. Old Nick overheats. Sounds like a joke, but it does happen from time to time. Usually during July rad storms. An embarrassing reminder – to himself, mostly – just how outdated he is. Fully equipped with a cooling system that screams, "you belong in the trash."  
  
A look of concern crosses other's features.  
  
Nick pulls out another cigarette. He sits down on the only couch in the house. The rest of the furniture, scrapped for God knows what.  
  
“You're overheating. Should you really be putting something on fire in your mouth?"  
  
"Either the heat's getting to my brain, or you just made a joke."  
  


The sound quiets to a barely audible hum. Ambient, no longer terrifying.  
  
"So, what happens if you _do_.. overheat?" If Nick's not mistaken, while his systems slowed, Danse's had not. His pulse pounding in Nick's auditory sensors.  
  
"Scared ya that bad?" Nick pauses. "It's not detrimental. I just shut off for a while. Nothing horrible."  
  
"And you're fine now?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Could we," he strings the words together carefully, "hold each other, then?"  
  
Nick pats the seat next to him, throwing an arm around broad shoulders. "Nate put you up to this, right?"  
  
Danse was clearly embarrassed. "He said you'd be good for me. Similar situations or something."  
  
_'Guess Nate finally made a successful match.'_


End file.
